Infinite Dreams

  “A hydrogen-carbon bond?”

  “This is only noise to me.” Faint sound of a car door slamming, out on the dirt road.

  “Oh, oh,” John said. “Company coming. You wait here.” He opened the door a crack and watched Lester stroll up the path.

  “Hey, Perfesser! You ain’t gonna believe what—”

  “I know, Les. Isaac told me about it down at Leroy’s.” He had the door open about twelve centimeters.

  Lester stood on the doormat, tried to look inside. “Somethin’ goin’ on in there?”

  “Hard to explain, uh, I’ve got company.”

  Lester closed his mouth and gave John a broad wink. “Knew you had it in you, Doc.” He passed the Mason jar to John. “Look, I come back later. Really do want yer ’pinion.”

  “Fine, we’ll do that. I’ll fix you a—”

  A taloned hand snatched the Mason jar from John.

  Lester turned white and staggered back. “Don’t move a muscle, Doc. I’ll git my gun.”

  “No, wait! It’s friendly!”

  “Food,” the creature growled. “Yes, friend.” The screw-top was unfamiliar but only presented a momentary difficulty. The alien snapped it off, glass and all, with a flick of the wrist. It dashed the quart of raw ’shine down its throat.

  “Ah, fine. So good. Three parts food, one part water. Strange flavor, so good.” It pushed John aside and waddled out the door.

  “You have more good food?”

  Lester backed away. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Yes. yes. You have more of this what your mind calls ‘corn’?”

  “I be damned.” Lester shook his head in wonder. “You are the ugliest sumbitch I ever did see.”

  “This is humor, yes. On my world, egg-eater, you would be in cage. To frighten children to their amusement.” It looked left and right and pointed at Lester’s beat-up old Pinto station wagon. “More corn in that animal?”

  “Sure.” He squinted at the creature. “You got somethin’ to pay with?”

  “Pay? What is this noise?”

  Lester looked up at John. “Did he say what I thought he said?”

  John laughed. “I’ll get my checkbook. You let him have all he wants.”

  When John came back out, Lester was leaning on his station wagon, sipping from a jar, talking to the alien. The creature was resting back on its tail, consuming food at a rate of about a quart every thirty seconds. Lester had showed it how to unscrew the jars.

  “I do not lie,” it said. “This is the best food I have ever tasted.”

  Lester beamed. “That’s what I tell ev’ybody. You can’t git that in no store.”

  “I tasted only little last night. But could tell from even that. Have been seeking you.”

  It was obvious that the alien was going to drink all three cases. $25 per jar, John calculated, 36 jars. “Uh, Les, I’m going to have to owe you part of the money.”

  “That’s okay, Doc. He just tickles the hell outa me.”

  The alien paused in mid-jar. “Now I am to understand, I think. You own this food. The Doc gives to you a writing of equal value.”

  “That’s right,” John said.

  “You, the Les, think of things you value. I must be symmetry … I must have a thing you value.”

  Lester’s face wrinkled up in thought. “Ah, there is one thing, yes. I go.” The alien waddled back to his ship.

  “Gad,” Lester said. “If this don’t beat all.”

  (Traveling with the alien is his pet treblig. He carries it because it always emanates happiness. It is also a radioactive creature that can excrete any element. The alien gives it a telepathic command. With an effort that scrambles television reception for fifty miles, it produces a gold nugget weighing slightly less than one kilogram.)

  The alien came back and handed the nugget to Lester. “I would take some of your corn back to my home world, yes? Is this sufficient?”

  The alien had to wait a few days while Lester brewed up enough ’shine to fill up his auxiliary food tanks. He declined an invitation to go to Washington, but didn’t mind talking to reporters.

  Humankind learned that the universe was teeming with intelligent life. In this part of the Galaxy there was an organization called the Commonality—not really a government; more like a club. Club members were given such useful tools as faster-than-light travel and immortality.

  All races were invited to join the Commonality once they had evolved morally above a certain level. Humankind, of course was only a Class 6. Certain individuals went as high as 5 or as low as 7 (equivalent to the moral state of an inanimate object), but it was the average that counted.

  After a rather grim period of transition, the denizens of Earth settled down to concentrating on being good, trying to reach Class 3, the magic level.

  It would take surprisingly few generations. Because humankind had a constant reminder of the heaven on Earth that awaited them, as ship after ship drifted down from the sky to settle by a still outside a little farm near New Homestead, Florida: for several races, the gourmet center of Sirius Sector.

  The Private War of Private Jacob

  This is the shortest story I’ve ever written, yet I could write a book about where it came from and what it means. Instead, let me pass on to you a remark a friend of mine made about Catch-22:

  “Nobody who hasn’t been in the army can really understand the book. They think it’s fiction.”

  With each step your boot heel cracks through the sun-dried crust and your foot hesitates, drops through an inch of red talcum powder, and then you draw it back up with another crackle. Fifty men marching in a line through this desert and they sound like a big bowl of breakfast cereal.

  Jacob held the laser projector in his left hand and rubbed his right in the dirt. Then he switched hands and rubbed his left in the dirt. The plastic handles got very slippery after you’d sweated on them all day long, and you didn’t want the damn thing to squirt out of your grip when you were rolling and stumbling and crawling your way to the enemy, and you couldn’t use the strap, noplace off the parade ground; goddamn slide-rule jockey figured out where to put it, too high, take the damn thing off if you could. Take the goddamn helmet off too, if you could. No matter you were safer with it on. They said. And they were pretty strict, especially about the helmets.

  “Look happy, Jacob,” Sergeant Melford was always all smile and bounce before a battle. During a battle, too. He smiled at the tanglewire and beamed at his men while they picked their way through it—if you go too fast you get tripped and if you go too slow you get burned—and he had a sad smile when one of his men got zeroed and a shriek a happy shriek when they first saw the enemy and glee when an enemy got zeroed and nothing but smiles smiles smiles through the whole sorry mess. “If he didn’t smile, just once,” young-old Addison told Jacob, a long time ago, “Just once he cried or frowned, there would be fifty people waiting for the first chance to zero that son of a bitch.” And Jacob asked why and he said, “You just take a good look inside yourself the next time you follow that crazy son of a bitch into hell and you come back and tell me how you felt about him.”

  Jacob wasn’t stupid, that day or this one, and he did keep an inside eye on what was going on under his helmet. What old Sergeant Melford did for him was mainly to make him glad that he wasn’t crazy too, and no matter how bad things got, at least Jacob wasn’t enjoying it like that crazy laughing grinning old Sergeant Melford.

  He wanted to tell Addison and ask him why sometimes you were really scared or sick and you would look up and see Melford laughing his crazy ass off, standing over some steaming roasted body, and you’d have to grin, too, was it just so insane horrible or? Addison might have been able to tell Jacob but Addison took a low one and got hurt bad in both legs and the groin and it was a long time before he came back and then he wasn’t young-old any more but just old. And he didn’t say much any more.

  With both his hands good and dirty, for a good grip on the plastic handle
s, Jacob felt more secure and he smiled back at Sergeant Melford.

  “Gonna be a good one, Sarge.” It didn’t do any good to say anything else, like it’s been a long march and why don’t we rest a while before we hit them, Sarge or, I’m scared and sick and if I’m gonna die I want it at the very first, Sarge: no. Crazy old Melford would be down on his hunkers next to you and give you a couple of friendly punches and josh around and flash those white teeth until you were about to scream or run but instead you wound up saying, “Yeah Sarge, gonna be a good one.”

  We most of us figured that what made him so crazy was just that he’d been in this crazy war so long, longer than anybody could remember anybody saying he remembered; and he never got hurt while platoon after platoon got zeroed out from under him by ones and twos and whole squads. He never got hurt and maybe that bothered him, not that any of us felt sorry for the crazy son of a bitch.

  Wesley tried to explain it like this: “Sergeant Melford is an improbability locus.” Then he tried to explain what a locus was and Jacob didn’t really catch it, and he tried to explain what an improbability was, and that seemed pretty simple but Jacob couldn’t see what it all had to do with math. Wesley was a good talker though, and he might have one day been able to clear it up but he tried to run through the tanglewire, you’d think not even a civilian would try to do that, and he fell down and the little metal bugs ate his face.

  It was twenty or maybe twenty-five battles later, who keeps track, when Jacob realized that not only did old Sergeant Melford never get hurt, but he never killed any of the enemy either. He just ran around singing out orders and being happy and every now and then he’d shoot off his projector but he always shot high or low or the beam was too broad. Jacob wondered about it but by this time he was more afraid, in a way, of Sergeant Melford than he was of the enemy, so he kept his mouth shut and he waited for someone else to say something about it.

  Finally Cromwell, who had come into the platoon only a couple of weeks after Jacob, noticed that Sergeant Melford never seemed to zero anybody and he had this theory that maybe the crazy old son of a bitch was a spy for the other side. They had fun talking about that for a while, and then Jacob told them about the old improbability locus theory, and one of the new guys said he sure is an imperturbable locust all right, and they all had a good laugh, which was good because Sergeant Melford came by and joined in after Jacob told him what was so funny, not about the improbability locus, but the old joke about how do you make a hormone? You don’t pay her. Cromwell laughed like there was no tomorrow and for Cromwell there wasn’t even any sunset, because he went across the perimeter to take a crap and got caught in a squeezer matrix.

  The next battle was the first time the enemy used the drainer field, and of course the projectors didn’t work and the last thing a lot of the men learned was that the light plastic stock made a damn poor weapon against a long knife, of which the enemy had plenty. Jacob lived because he got in a lucky kick, aimed for the groin but got the kneecap, and while the guy was hopping around trying to stay upright he dropped his knife and Jacob picked it up and gave the guy a new orifice, eight inches wide and just below the navel.

  The platoon took a lot of zeros and had to fall back, which they did very fast because the tanglewire didn’t work in a drainer field, either. They left Addison behind, sitting back against a crate with his hands in his lap and a big drooly red grin not on his face.

  With Addison gone, no other private had as much combat time as Jacob. When they rallied back at the neutral zone, Sergeant Melford took Jacob aside and wasn’t really smiling at all when he said: “Jacob, you know that now if anything happens to me, you’ve got to take over the platoon. Keep them spread out and keep them advancing, and most of all, keep them happy.”

  Jacob said, “Sarge, I can tell them to keep spread out and I think they will, and all of them know enough to keep pushing ahead, but how can I keep them happy when I’m never very happy myself, not when you’re not around.”

  That smile broadened and turned itself into a laugh. You crazy old son of a bitch, Jacob thought and because he couldn’t help himself, he laughed too. “Don’t worry about that,” Sergeant Melford said. “That’s the kind of thing that takes care of itself when the time comes.”

  The platoon practiced more and more with knives and clubs and how to use your hands and feet but they still had to carry the projectors into combat because, of course, the enemy could turn off the drainer field whenever he wanted to. Jacob got a couple of scratches and a piece of his nose cut off, but the medic put some cream on it and it grew back. The enemy started using bows and arrows so the platoon had to carry shields, too, but that wasn’t too bad after they designed one that fit right over the projector, held sideways. One squad learned how to use bows and arrows back at the enemy and things got as much back to normal as they had ever been.

  Jacob never knew exactly how many battles he had fought as a private, but it was exactly forty-one. And actually, he wasn’t a private at the end of the forty-first.

  Since they got the archer squad, Sergeant Melford had taken to standing back with them, laughing and shouting orders at the platoon and every now and then loosing an arrow that always landed on a bare piece of ground. But this particular battle (Jacob’s forty-first) had been going pretty poorly, with the initial advance stopped and then pushed back almost to the archers; and then a new enemy force breaking out on the other side of the archers.

  Jacob’s squad maneuvered between the archers and the new enemy soldiers and Jacob was fighting right next to Sergeant Melford, fighting pretty seriously while old Melford just laughed his fool head off, crazy son of a bitch. Jacob felt that split-second funny feeling and ducked and a heavy club whistled just over his head and bashed the side of Sergeant Melford’s helmet and sheared the top of his helmet off just as neat as you snip the end off a soft-boiled egg. Jacob fell to his knees and watched the helmet full of stuff twirl end over end in back of the archers and he wondered why there were little glass marbles and cubes inside the grey-blue blood-streaked mushy stuff and then everything just went

  Inside a mountain of crystal under a mountain of rock, a tiny piezoelectric switch, sixty-four molecules in a cube, flipped over to the OFF position and the following transaction took place at just less than the speed of light:

  UNIT 10011001011MELFORD ACCIDENTALLY DEACTIVATED.

  SWITCH UNIT 1101011100JACOB TO CATALYST STATUS.

  (SWITCHING COMPLETED)

  ACTIVATE AND INSTRUCT UNIT 1101011100JACOB.

  and came back again just like that. Jacob stood up and looked around. The same old sun-baked plain, but everybody but him seemed to be dead. Then he checked and the ones that weren’t obviously zeroed were still breathing a bit. And, thinking about it, he knew why. He chuckled.

  He stepped over the collapsed archers and picked up Melford’s bleedy skull-cap. He inserted the blade of a knife between the helmet and the hair, shorting out the induction tractor that held the helmet on the head and served to pick up and transmit signals. Letting the helmet drop to the ground, he carefully bore the grisly balding bowl over to the enemy’s crapper. Knowing exactly where to look, he fished out all the bits and pieces of crystal and tossed them down the smelly hole. Then he took the unaugmented brain back to the helmet and put it back the way he had found it. He returned to his position by Melford’s body.

  The stricken men began to stir and a few of the most hardy wobbled to their hands and knees.

  Jacob threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

  A Time to Live

  This story started with a leaky fountain pen, took a side trip to the moon, and ended up with my brother. Flying somewhere on a plane without too much pressurization, I read a story in The New Yorker. The story was otherwise unremarkable—I don’t even remember the author’s name—but it had a neat first-person viewpoint trick that I thought might one day come in handy. I found a scrap of paper and made a note. The note was rather messy, as was my pocket, sinc
e the lack of pressure in the cabin had given my fountain pen a new sense of freedom. I lost the note, probably before I left the airplane, but remembered taking it.

  The second scene is perhaps a year later, stopping by the Analog office to bother Ben Bova. Ben was ready for me: On a large lunar colony, he asked, what would they do with all the dead bodies? I said they d recycle them, the conventional answer; grind ’em up and sprinkle ’em over the north forty. No, he said, the elements in a human body are an insignificantly small fraction of the total biomass needed for a large colony, so they could do anything they wanted with the bodies. He suggested that many people would elect to be “buried at space,” jettisoned in a funerary capsule. He also suggested that I write him a story about it. I said I would, some day, too busy now.

  My brother Jack is also a writer, and a good one. Ben called and said he’d bought a story from Jack, so he had to have one from me for the same issue, lest the readers become confused. I had to bow to his logic.

  Actually, I’d been thinking about writing a short story anyhow, about time travel. Natural languages, it says here, can’t deal directly with time travel, because their tense structures are geared to time as a one-way street. I wasn’t about to make up a new set of tenses to accommodate time travel, which would be incomprehensible to every reader, including myself. But I did see a way to take that New Yorker trick and twist it in a Moebius way, to at least imply the complexity of the situation.

  There was even a way to get Ben’s funerary capsules into the act, as well as pay homage to two of my favorite science fiction stories: “The Man Who Sold the Moon” and “All You Zombies,” both by Robert Heinlein.

  The Man Who Owns the Moon, they called him while he was alive, and The Man Who Owned the Moon for some time thereafter. Dr. Thorne Harrison: